


catastrophication

by untrustworthyglitch



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxiety, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, M/M, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 10:58:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20062903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/untrustworthyglitch/pseuds/untrustworthyglitch
Summary: Crowley is sleek, cool, expensive and suave and probably someone who owns multi-thousand dollar pairs of shoes that he never wears. Aziraphale is... well, Aziraphale is not.





	catastrophication

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Flowerbed_Owl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flowerbed_Owl/gifts).

> written for a prompt on tumblr!! (crowleyspraisekink dot tumblr dot com btw)
> 
> yes i have anxiety yes i'm projecting

“Angel, are you ready yet?” Crowley calls. They’re at his apartment, a dozen stories above the bustling Mayfair streets, and he’s having a grand old time standing shirtless in front of the window. Sure, he doesn’t technically report to any sort of head office anymore, and he’s definitely not filling out the paperwork, but who’s he to stop himself from doing a few little temptations here and there? It’s not his fault if the humans catch a glimpse of him and think some rather lustful thoughts. And hey, if a certain angel does just that, where’s the harm?

“Nearly,” Aziraphale replies from the bathroom. Normally, Crowley would shrug and leave him to it, but there’s something off about the angel’s voice, something slightly strangled, and Crowley’s never been very good at leaving well enough alone.

“You sure?” he probes. When no answer is forthcoming, the spark of worry in his chest starts to grow into a small campfire. He could roast marshmallows over it.

“Angel?” Crowley tries again, and when that doesn’t work, he brings out the big guns. “Aziraphale?”

The bathroom door creaks open slowly, and Aziraphale peers out, eyes misty and cheeks bright red. He won’t meet Crowley’s eyes, and that little worry-campfire suddenly roars into a whole forest fire, hot and all consuming.

Crowley takes a deep breath. Holds it. Lets it out. Opens his mouth to speak.

“What’s happened?” he asks, and is proud of the way his voice doesn’t shake. He takes a few long strides across the room, until he’s near enough to reach out and place a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, should he choose. He doesn’t, though, because Aziraphale’s hands are shaking slightly and there’s something in his eyes that speaks of a frightened small animal.

“Nothing’s happened,” Aziraphale lies. Crowley knows it’s a lie because of the catch in the angel’s voice, a tiny rasp at the back of his throat like he badly needs a glass of water. Lying is a sin, after all, and Aziraphale is not built to sin. Though his face would never betray him, his voice rebels at the idea of telling a lie, even a small one such as this. 

“Tell me,” Crowley insists. He pushes his sunglasses down to the tip of his nose so that he can look Aziraphale in the eye. It’s a trick he’d learned ages ago, and he’s not above employing it now. 

It works like a charm. Aziraphale sags, shoulders crumpling in on himself like a marionette with cut strings. He fiddles with a cufflink when he says, “I’m just. Worried.”

“Worried?” Crowley parrots. “Worried about what?”

“Now my dear, please don’t take this the wrong way,” Aziraphale says carefully. He’s hedging, beating around the bush, and it sets off every alarm bell in Crowley’s head. (Which is quite a lot of alarms for one being to possess.)

“Mk,” Crowley says. It’s supposed to be a noise of compliance, and it’s clear that Aziraphale recognizes it as such, because he takes a deep, shuddering breath, and continues.

“I’m worried about us,” he says, and Crowley feels his entire world crashing down on his shoulders.

Does Aziraphale not want--them? Does he not feel the same? He’d said he did, had confessed his love with a voice so soft and tender and gentle that it had had Crowley blushing for weeks, but did he not mean it? Or had he changed his mind? What if Crowley had gone too fast for him, and now the angel needs to retreat, pull back, consider his choices and take them back? What if Aziraphale has decided that being on their own side is overrated, and that he wants to go back to how they were a long time ago, when they were Acquaintances first and friends, lowercase f, only when blackout drunk? Or what if he wants nothing to do with Crowley at all, now that he’s seen exactly what Crowley is like when he’s not playing up his hellish nature for work or just for a laugh? What if Crowley is too demonic? What if he’s not demonic _enough_?

Crowley breathes in. Holds it. Lets it out. Tries to realize that he is catastrophizing. Breathes in again. Holds it. Lets it out again. Opens his mouth to speak.

“What’s got you worried, then?” he asks, terrified of the answer, but working as hard as he can to not let on.

“It’s just,” Aziraphale starts, and pauses, swallowing hard, taking his time to choose words. “I’m worried about what people will think, when they see us together. I’m--well, I’m me. And you’re you.”

Crowley blinks at him. “Who else would we be?”

“Oh, come now, surely you get my meaning. You’re cool and stylish and hip and I’m. Well. I’m not.” The worry in Aziraphale’s voice is as obvious as the sun in a clear summer sky. His hand, when he runs it through his hair, shakes. He still won’t meet Crowley’s eyes.

“Oh, angel,” Crowley says softly. He puts a hand gently on the angel’s shoulder and doesn’t miss the way Aziraphale flinches slightly at the contact. Carefully, he places a finger under Aziraphale’s chin and nudges his face upward, tilting him toward the light. “You’re jumping to conclusions here. I promise you, I don’t give a single fuck whether you’re cool or hip or stylish. I like you just as you are.”

“But what if you don’t?” Aziraphale laments. “What if you’re only humoring me, or are secretly embarrassed to be seen with me?”

Crowley lets out a slow sigh. “That’s illogical. You know that, right? Who sticks around a person for six thousand years without actually liking them? I’m a demon, right, but I’m not a glutton for punishment. Leave the masochism to the rest of them.”

“You know what I mean,” Aziraphale insists.

“Can’t say that I do,” Crowley replies easily. “Angel, I love you. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. I don’t know where this anxiety is coming from, but--oh, hold on.”

A rare circumstance is about to take place: Crowley is about to have a Genuinely Good Idea.

“Hey, do something for me, okay?” he says. Aziraphale, looking skeptical but still trusting to a fault, nods slowly. Crowley takes both of his hands and holds them tightly, trying to still their shaking just by keeping them safe and calm in his own.

“I don’t see--” Aziraphale starts, but Crowley cuts him off with a little hiss.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to hiss,” he says automatically, and then, “Take a deep breath. Like, human-style. Fill your lungs. Do you have lungs?”

“I believe the body came fully equipped, yes,” Aziraphale says, and obliges. He breathes in slowly, carefully, taking his time until his lungs reach capacity. Before he can exhale, Crowley speaks again.

“Hold that for a few seconds. Five, or something. I dunno. I usually make it up as I go along. And now you can breathe out. Wait, no, don’t say anything. Breathe in again. That’s it. Hold it. See, it’s a whole process. A whole ordeal. You body’s built like a human, so it wants to panic like a human’s body, and you have to know the cheats to get it to calm down.”

“I believe it’s working,” Aziraphale says, after a few in-hold-out cycles. 

“Of course it’s working,” Crowley scoffs. “Have I ever led you astray? Don’t answer that.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says instead, finally meeting Crowley’s gaze. He gives a tight smile and squeezes Crowley’s hands, their fingers still entwined. “I got a bit carried away, didn’t I?”

“Nah, it’s alright,” Crowley says. He squirms a bit under the force of such bright sincerity. He may have finally gotten used to the idea of being head over heels in love with the angel, but he’s going to take a good long while to adjust to the reality of having that same love reflected back. It’s such a pure feeling, almost holy, and it leaves him feeling a bit like he ought to have a sunburn, though he never does. 

“I simply worry sometimes that I will go too slowly for you, and that you’ll tire of me,” Aziraphale admits sheepishly.

Crowley tries very hard to not make a strangled noise in the back of his throat, and almost succeeds. He chalks it up to a win anyway. “Angel, I will go as slowly as you want me to, you know that. You’re it for me. You could parade a billion incubi right in front of me, and all I’d want is you.”

Aziraphale blushes. “Don’t be facetious.”

“Besides, I was in love with you even during the fourteenth century, and you remember the clothes,” Crowley says, aiming for levity and getting there quite nicely.

Aziraphale gives a delicate shudder, the horrors of the fashion of that particular era etched permanently into his memory. “Please, don’t remind me.”

Crowley laughs and lets go of the angel’s hands, but only to tuck him neatly in to his side, holding him close. “C’mon, let me put on a shirt and we’ll go. I made reservations. The human way, mind you. That’s not easy. You better fucking appreciate me, angel, I mean it.”

When Aziraphale smiles, it is watery but bright. “Of course I appreciate you, dear. Every second of every day.”

Crowley tries not to blush, and fails rather spectacularly. 


End file.
